


Up the Ladder

by Rochelle_Rochelle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joanlock - Freeform, Smutty, no redeeming value
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rochelle_Rochelle/pseuds/Rochelle_Rochelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by scenes of Sherlock on the library ladder.<br/>Complete. Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock perched on the library ladder, reaching up and around and shuffling books on the upper shelf. He was reorganizing his late 19th century theosophy section to make room for a recent acquisition. Warm from the exertions of his toil, Sherlock's jacket had come off a few minutes ago, and he had rolled up his shirts sleeves. 

Watson, for her part, sat comfortably behind him, pretending to read but surreptitiously enjoying the view. The lack of jacket served to enhance her appreciation of his physique. Not usually one to allow herself any thoughts of Sherlock as a male for fear of where that might lead, today she gave herself permission to indulge in some harmless ogling. Joan wondered if he was aware of her scrutiny; he certainly was being more acrobatic than necessary - leg lifts and stretches that accentuated some of his best features. 

"Hand me that book would you, Watson?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Joan guiltily moved her eyes from where they had been to his.

"The small volume," he pointed from atop the ladder, "by the chair. It was supposedly was one of Kandinsky's favorites. It's a bunch of hokum, of course, but it does give one insight into the workings a certain mindset." Sherlock watched her as she crossed to the chair. He noted the slight flush on her cheeks and wondered what she had been reading to cause that particular physiological reaction. 

Joan picked up the leather bound book and realizing that even stretching she could not reach him, she considered climbing up onto the ladder. Sherlock stood waiting for the tome, pontificating on the stranger beliefs of theosophy. 

"Fairies of all things." Sherlock continued, "What kind of grown man believes in fairies? Yet some of these learned gentlemen .... " 

She interrupted his discourse, "Do you think this ladder will hold both us?"

He looked down at her, a vague smile on his face, "Most certainly. At one point I believe three of us were ..."

"Ah! Spare me the details." Joan started climbing. She didn't need her head filled with any more images of him in various stages of ... uhm ... exertion. She had conjured up enough of those images for herself while watching him shelf. She moved up another rung as Sherlock turned back to the shelves. 

Good grief, his pants were distractingly tight, she thought, as her head moved past a well-rounded cheek, the material spread taut against it. She closed her eyes momentarily and took another step so she was almost level with him. Joan opened her eyes, reached up to hand him the book and in so doing, lost her balance. She caught herself, falling forward on to him and grabbing on to keep from slipping. His bottom proved an excellent handhold. She held tight.

Watson's body, suddenly pressed hard against his, and her hand clasping his rear rather firmly, froze Sherlock in place. "All right there, Watson?" He asked gently, with as little emotion as possible. He waited. Her hand was still clasped to his posterior, her other on the ladder railing.

"Sorry ... Lost my balance." She was glad he couldn't see her face. Embarrassment and an awakening desire fought within her. 

"Mmm," was his only reply as he focused on the task at hand and pushed the book she had handed him carefully into its newly created slot. Her hand was still on him, her body still pressed to his; he wasn't complaining, he just wasn't sure he could control his body's reaction to the stimuli.

Joan didn't move. Her ear and cheek were pressed flat to his back. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, the elevated breathing, his heart racing ... or was that hers. She closed her eyes and meant to pull away but instead found herself caressing his back with her cheek, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt shift with her movement, muscles tight underneath. Her head turned so that her forehead and nose now pressed into him. Joan knew she needed to stop, to climb off the ladder, to walk away ... But she didn't .. she stayed where she was.

"Give me a second ..." She whispered, not knowing if she was talking to him or herself. 

"Take all the time you need. We're in no hurry." His voice was soft, laden with a double meaning he hoped she'd understand. 

Sherlock regulated his breathing but he could not control his heart. The feel of her body, her face pressed against him, caused all rational thought to ooze away. Her hand caressed him and her warm, moist breath penetrated through the cotton of his shirt and deep into him; he could feel her lips, parted and moving .... His head bent forward onto the ladder rung as he let himself go and enjoyed the sensations. Sherlock's hand moved down to cover hers on the ladder rail.

His touched spurred her on. She slowly was losing control, not knowing where her boldness would take her but willing to find out. Joan moved her hand from his bottom slowly around to his front, to his abdomen, up to his chest, squeezing him closer to her and then down once more.

His breathing quickened again. His hand tightened over hers. His eyes closed as he enjoyed the play of her hand across his chest.

Joan's hand came to a stop at his belt, and lingered there for a second, her fingers poised to breach the barrier. Her breath was ragged as was his. "Sherlock..." She spoke his name with controlled passion, asking permission before she crossed the line.

He moved his hips and angled himself closer to her, setting off a small avalanche of sensations for both of them. Her hand pressed into him before beginning its descent. 

The husky moan of her name as her fingers crossed that threshold sent a thrill through her whole being. His body swelled in her embrace with the breath he gulped in. Joan bit at his back; her hand moved down onto him and took hold. Another groan as her hand wrapped itself around him and she pressed herself to him again. She moved her fingers over his length. His pants were proving a hindrance, limiting her movement. She withdrew her hand and brought it to lay on the front of his pants. She felt him move through the material and held on for a moment.

"Don't stop ... Please ..." Sherlock's whisper urgently pleaded.

"No ... I just need more..... room..." She found his zipper and brought it down. The simple action proved more erotic than anticipated, both groaned and urgency filled their movements. Sherlock moved his hand from hers on the railing, undid his belt and pushed constricting articles down and away.

Joan quickly took hold of him once more. "That's better."

"Mmm hmmm .... I .... concur." He barely got the words out as Joan's fingers wound around his hardening girth and stroked in slow rhythm. The small sounds of pleasure he was producing stirred her even more and as she began to strengthen and quicken the pace, an explosive knock came front the front door.

"Are we expecting anyone," she whispered, her hand frozen in place.

"No." They waited in silence. The knocking sounded out again. Joan jumped at the sound and he tried to sooth her, "It's alright, they'll give up and go away."

Again a rapid series of knocks, followed by a loud voice, "Sherlock! Joan! Open up! You in there! It's important." More knocking followed. 

"It's Harlan." Her words carried her disappointment. Joan began to extricate herself from their contortion. 

Sherlock sighed, "Harlan. He won't stop... The man's obsessiveness is unrivaled."

To his dismay, Joan began descending the ladder. "I'll tell him we're busy, to come back later." Sherlock too late turned and moved to stop her. She headed to the front door.

Joan took a breath and composed herself before opening the door. She underestimated Harlan's sense of urgency. He burst in, with a quick greeting and a rushed question, "Is Sherlock here? I need to talk to him." 

He made to move past her and she tried to stop him. "Sherlock's busy at the moment, perhaps you can come back later." Harlan heard none of her words and breezed by her aiming for the library.

"Harlan!" She called after him, as a warning for Sherlock more than an attempt to stop him. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, a half empty box of files lay as camouflage across his lap. He looked sternly at the intruder, "What is it Harlan? Watson and I are enormously busy at the moment."

Harlan shook the file folder he was carrying, "This, the ... the numbers!" He stuttered excitedly, "They show a completely different scenario from what the FBI led us to believe." 

Sherlock glanced at Watson. He had no interest at the moment in the case, the numbers or Harlan. Joan met and equaled his look. Harlan Empel, not the best at picking up on social cues, continued, delivering all the information he had gleaned from the data in rapid fire speech. Joy spread on his face as he finished and waited for a response. 

"That's fine, Harlan. But as I stated previously, Watson and I are completely immersed in something else at the moment...."

"Perhaps I can help you with that."

Joan's eyes grew wide at the thought, and Sherlock suppressed his enjoyment of the look on her face.

She jumped in, "No, Harlan, thank you. We've got this covered." She took Harlan by the elbow leading him to the door, "We will give you a call later tonight or tomorrow when we have the time to fully devote our attention to your theory."

"It's not just for this case. I know this one is a cold case but the same structure can be applied in other scenarios..."

"Yes, yes ... We'll discuss later." Joan practically pushed him out the door. She felt bad for the mathematician. He was like a puppy seeking Sherlock's approval and she had just turned him out. She stood at the door, uncertainty about her previous actions beginning to bubble within. She practically attacked Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood a few feet behind her, watching. Was she feeling remorse or embarrassment? Was she unsure ... He could find no words to reassure or alleviate her concerns or express his feelings. He chose to move forward instead. 

Joan sensed him come up behind her and spoke first. "This is all your fault you know ...." She was momentarily stopped by his arms winding tightly around her waist. After a breath, Joan found her voice, "... You wear your pants way too tight." 

Sherlock placed a tender kiss at the base of her neck. "Mmm ... I'm sorry. Perhaps I should just cease wearing trousers. Would that help?" 

"It might...."

His lips softly dragged their way up the curve of her neck. "Alright, no trousers." His hands moved down from her waist to the silky material of her skirt, lifting it as he caressed. Sherlock's mouth was at her ear, "But you have to give up these in return." His finger looped into the lace waistband and slowly began pulling down.

Joan's breath hitched at his touch; her words formed slowly. "Okay ... Yes ..." She just barely managed to get the words out as he pulled down on the waistband with one hand and gently stroked with the other. "How about we stay on the ground this time though?"


	2. Chapter 2

Her panties sat in a tiny heap by his head. She lay on top of him, nose pressed into his bare chest. Their overheated bodies expanded and contracted into each other as they gasped for air, punctuated by shudders of pleasure that would not release its hold on either of them. His arms wound around her and pressed her flesh tighter against his. They lay on the foyer floor, savoring the release.

Slowly recovering, Joan placed open mouth kisses across his chest, "I'll buy you a new shirt." In their zest, his shirt had been the second casualty of their ardor. The buttons had resisted, and for their ill-behavior were torn away from their cloth home. 

"I shall do the same for your undergarments," he moved his hands to the spot where they should be. Her lacy panties had torn under the strains of his need for her. "In my defense, they were rather flimsy." He squeezed her bare bottom and encouraged her movement up to meet his waiting mouth. She languorously dragged her body up against his until her lips met his. The kiss, long and deep, threatened to re-spark their recent activity.

Joan slowly pulled away, speaking into his open mouth. "This isn't the way I imagined this would happen."

"Hmm, you've thought about this, us, happening?" Sherlock tried to entice her back with a tender nibble of her lower lip.

"Mmm hmmm," she kissed his chin and snuggled into the crook of his neck, "You hadn't?"

"Oh, perhaps in our time together, the thought has occurred to me once or twice," Sherlock spoke nonchalantly, and after a small beat, he added in a whisper, "a day."

Joan smiled into his neck and squirmed on top of him, readjusting herself closer into him.

"Mmm," his hand moved through her hair. "Are you disappointed?"

"Not at all. I just had built up more of a romantic fantasy I guess, something a little more subtle than me groping you on the library ladder."

He moved his hand down the curve of her back, fingertips making small circles at its base, "For the record, please note that you may grope me anywhere, at any time, for any reason, as the mood may strike you." 

A loud knock on the door startled them. "Not again," Sherlock muttered.

Joan sighed and spoke softly, "He's just excited about his findings and wants to share it with you." She gave him a reassuring squeeze. 

"At the moment, I'm not interested in sharing." Sherlock whispered and turning his head, he bellowed towards the door, "Go away, Harlan. We're busy. I'll call you later."

A man's voice answered flatly from the other side, "It's Gregson. I need a word with you."

Sherlock and Joan jumped up and scrambled. Clothes were collected and sorted in record time. 

"I'll be right with you captain." Sherlock spoke loudly at the door. He pulled on his pants and searched for his shirt. 

Joan clutched at the bunch of clothes in her hands, whispering, "I'm running upstairs to get dressed. I'll be down as soon as I can." She pulled out his shirt from the tangle of clothes she held and tossed it at her partner. 

Sherlock, still in shock as to what had moments ago transpired between them, took a moment and let his eyes caress each curve and move of her as she climbed up stairs. He broke himself away on Gregson's third knock and put on his shirt, too late remembering its buttonless condition. Paying it no matter, he slipped untied shoes on sockless feet and opened the door. 

Gregson stood impatiently on the other side. "Finally." He scanned Sherlock's unkempt appearance, made assumptions as any good detective would, but said nothing as he walked in. 

Sherlock made no excuses, "How can I be of service?"

The captain had a personal missing person case for his consulting detectives. His niece's best friend had disappeared in Connecticut. It was out of his jurisdiction and officially out of his hands but he knew Holmes and Watson would be able to do what he couldn't. Joan joined them, impeccably dressed, as Gregson filled them in on the details. 

The case kept them busy for the next 48 hours.


	3. Chapter 3

Joan stood at the top of the stairs, tucked an errant strand into her upswept hair and took a small nervous breath. She had received a text from him earlier in the day inviting her to dinner at one of the fancier restaurants in Brooklyn, one she had been wanting to try for some time. She said yes. Up until today, Gregson's case had kept them in crime-solving mode, with little time to think about anything else. 

"You look ... " He managed to get those two words out and then all thought and vocabulary failed him. Sherlock stood mouth open, staring at her and feeling like a fool. He swallowed and tried again. "You look ... quite ... nice." If he could have knocked himself out with a punch at that moment, he would have done so. 'Nice' - what an insipid word to describe the exquisiteness of Watson descending the stairs. The dress - tight, black, long sleeved and high necked - showed no skin whatsoever. To him, though, it was as sensuous an article of clothing as she had ever worn. 

Watson understood his compliment. Better than any honey-tongued praise he could have given her, his sudden loss of speech combined with the adoration in his eyes set Joan's heart a flutter. 

He waited at the bottom of the stairs in suit and tie, gallantly holding her coat out for her. "Thanks." Joan didn't trust herself to say much else at that moment. Sherlock adjusted her coat collar, opened the door for her and off they stepped into the Brooklyn night. 

Side by side they sat in the small booth; dinner was comfortable and warm and happy. They were best friends first and foremost and as such, conversation came easy - talk of forensics and genetic research, of bees and bridges and a more thorough exploration of theosophy filled the evening, with a little gossip here and there about their co-workers. All very normal except for those lulls when they found themselves staring quietly into each other's eyes. During one of those lulls, he found the courage to search out her hand as it rested between them on the red leathered booth. He caressed her fingertips with his and watched as her breathing grew to match his, her cheeks lightly pinkened. He slid his fingers between hers, holding on a little tighter, as his thumb firmly explored the palm of her hand. 

Joan's eyes slightly fluttered and her lips parted. Sherlock sat enthralled. Her tongue quickly darted to moisten her lips before she spoke. "Let's get dessert to go. We can sit by the fire and ... be more comfortable."

 

Side by side along dark avenues and scarcely populated streets, they strolled in silence towards home. Words were unnecessary. 

 

He closed the brownstone door behind them as she removed her coat. 

Joan turned to face him, "I'll go change while you start a fire. How's that sound?" She smiled tentatively at the odd look on his face. 

"No." His voice was low and husky. "Don't change." His eyes bore into hers. "Please."

Joan explored his face. "Alright," she murmured.

He stepped forward and handed her their boxed dessert. "I'll start the fire." Sherlock lingered, his face close to hers. Joan felt a kiss was imminent but he suddenly moved away, walking quickly towards the library's fireplace.

 

She came back into the library with the plated desserts. Sherlock stood from where he knelt by the fire, and took the plates from her. Carefully placing them on the ottoman, he turned to her.

His voice came soft and sweet, "Do you think we could postpone dessert for now?"

Joan felt the energy pulse between them, felt herself being pulled into his eyes. "Yes." 

Before the word was finished, his hand was at her face, cupping her towards him. Her arms went up around his neck as the evening's long-waited for kiss released the first burst of the night's passion. Sherlock's hand raked through her hair, removing the clip that constrained her tresses and letting her hair fall around him as he moved his mouth towards her neck. 

Joan held on tighter as she felt his hands move down along her back, then to her hips and up again. He pulled himself away from her and looked into her eyes, his forehead coming to rest on hers. They breathed each other in, noses lightly rubbing.

Joan felt his fingertips at her back, at the neckline of her dress, take hold of the zipper tab and slowly pull it down. The zipper glided along the curve of her back, past her waist and downwards. 

Splaying the sides of the dress apart, Sherlock inserted his hands between the material and her body, enjoying the small hitch to her breath as his hand stroked her bare skin and moved down along her sides. 

"No undergarments," he whispered into her parted lips with a small smile as his hand swept from her waist to her bottom.

The pleasure his hands provided left her with a limited vocabulary. "Mmm mm." She rewarded him with a long, deep kiss.

Sherlock's hands moved up to her shoulders. Taking the opened back of the dress, he pulled gently forward, peeling the dress away from her so that her bare shoulders were revealed. He kissed his way down her neck to her shoulders and across her clavicle. 

Joan's breathing grew ragged as she anticipated his next move. She watched him, her arms at her side now, as he reached for the knit material. He pulled down gently until her breasts were bared, stopping momentarily to allow her to free her arms from the sleeves and then pulling down until the dress pooled at her midriff, just past her navel. His breathing now was ragged. 

Sherlock moved his fingertips to her breast, followed suddenly by his mouth, his tongue teasing and biting before permitting himself free reign. Her fingers grabbed at his hair and pushed him even closer. His hands roamed her back side and began to pull the dress off her hips leaving her completely naked before him.

He stepped back to look at her. Joan felt nothing but the absolute need for him rising within her, aroused by his eyes caressing her bare body. 

Moving towards him, she reached to unbutton his shirt. His hands moved towards her waist and she stopped him. The play of the firelight revealed her smoldering eyes. "Not yet." She whispered. Sherlock's hands dropped to his sides. His breathing quickened with each button she undid. 

Soon his trousers pooled at his feet, and he stood before her as bare as she; his arousal evident. Her eyes fed upon the muscled beauty of him. One finger traced the snake tattoo at his lower hip and then reached for him as she had on the ladder days before. He lost control at her touch. No longer able to stop himself, he crushed her body onto his. Moans of pleasure and desire escaped from both of them as their bodies scraped and ground into each other.

With all the restraint he could muster, he pulled her away from him. Sherlock maneuvered Joan to his chair and eased her down. She lay back, eyes half lidded, waiting for him. Kneeling before her, he dragged his lips up her bare thighs and until once again losing control, he plunged himself between them.

Joan called out his name and moaned as his tongue traced, flicked and moved between her, sliding deeper and deeper. Her hand moved to his head encouraging him forward while her hips thrust up to meet his every move. He held on tighter to her and pushed into her until she could hold back no more. Waves of pleasure pulsated through her; she clenched around him and released. Her hand still on his head. He gave her one last tiny bite that sent secondary spasms undulating through her again and caused the guttural invocation of his name that sent an almost responding thrill through him. 

Sherlock rested his head on her lap as she recovered from the moment. It took a while for her breathing to regulate and as it did, he looked up at her. Joan looked down at him, a smile played on her face. She moved to get up and he followed her lead. 

Sherlock soon found himself sitting where she just had been. Joan watched the look of bliss grow upon his face as she moved to him, straddled him and slowly lowered herself onto him. 

"Oh god, Watson ..."

\------- 

Two slices of cheesecake sat patiently on the ottoman, knowing that soon enough they were going to be called upon to provide sustenance for round two.


End file.
